


peace is something that starts with me

by ValyrianAluminum



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drug Addiction, Eventual Smut, F/M, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Lyanna is Not a Stark, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, R Plus L Equals J, Recreational Drug Use, Rickon ships it, Robb Stark is a Gift, Slow Burn, all relationships except jonsa are minor, arya stark is a gift, jon and sansa need all of the hugs, not as dark as the tags make it out to be i promise lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:01:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22048321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValyrianAluminum/pseuds/ValyrianAluminum
Summary: Jon Snow was broken fighting in a war he didn't care about.Sansa Stark was broken fighting a war of her own.But broken isn't so bad, is it?**FormerlyOrbits**
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters (minor), Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Daario Naharis/Daenerys Targaryen (implied), Jon Snow & Talisa Maegyr, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Talisa Maegyr/Robb Stark (minor) - Relationship
Comments: 57
Kudos: 208





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *TRIGGER WARNING*  
> Domestic violence, panic attacks, PTSD and prescription drug addiction all included in this fic.
> 
> Title from _Reborn_ by KIDS SEE GHOSTS

SANSA

“I think I liked it better when you two hated each other.”

Arya scoffed. “Yes, women _getting along_. How _awful._ ” she said patronizingly. “Sounding a bit _misogynistic_ , there, _Robert._ Something you wish to tell us?” Sansa suppressed a snort in her mimosa. 

“Living up to his namesake, _I’d_ say.” Sansa added cheekily. “You gonna pull the waitress into your lap next time she comes by?”

“I hate the both of you.” Robb groaned.

“And we happen to be women!” Arya exclaimed. “Coincidence? _I think NOT!_ ”

Sansa and Arya erupted into laughter as Robb’s forehead collided with the tabletop, clearly thoroughly done with his sisters’ shit. 

It was 11:00 A.M., on a Thursday, in the middle of March. And instead of preparing for her 11:30 psych class at K.L.U., she was eating brunch with her closest-in-age siblings, in a booth at Gage’s diner, in Winterfell. Hundreds of miles away. _And I couldn’t be happier._

Robb was on vacation, taking advantage of the _four weeks_ vacation time afforded to him by Stark Enterprises. _Perks of being the CEO’s son, I guess._ Arya was in her senior year at Wintertown High. She told Robb and Sansa that she had a spare period, but the longer the three siblings sat there, the less Sansa believed her. _And Dad will shake his head and smile fondly, even while reprimanding her._

Once, that would’ve made Sansa angry. High school Sansa would not be caught _dead_ skipping class. Southern universities don’t take truancies kindly, after all. The South was all Sansa had ever wanted. It had the warm climate, it had the best schools, it had _Joffrey_ …

Sansa shook her head briefly. _Happy thoughts, Sansa_. Thoughts of _him_ always turned to thoughts of horrific insults, of covering up the bruises with makeup, and remembering how she _got_ those bruises, and _oh gods, not now, please not now, pleas—_

“Happy place, Sans,” she hears her sister say, a million miles away. “Close your eyes. Go to your happy place.”

_I’m at home, in bed, my hand is in Lady’s fur, I’m full from Mum’s amazing lasagna, she even made lemon cakes—_

“Breath with me.” Arya said, much less far away. “In, out. In, out. In, out. There you go. You’re safe. You’re home. You’re with people who love you.”

_In, out._

_In, out._

_In, out._

After a while, her breathing evened out. As she opened her eyes, she noticed _several_ people’s eyes look away from her immediately. _This isn’t your fault,_ her therapist’s voice echoed in her head. _It’s nothing to be ashamed of, and nothing to feel sorry for._ That makes it easier, though not by much. 

“You back?” Arya asked. Sansa nodded shakily.

Unsatisfied, Arya gave her a pointed look.

“Yes, I’m back.” Sansa said. “Sorr—“

“Don’t.” Arya reprimanded immediately. “Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for. Remember what Dr. Luwin said?”

“Yeah, I remember.” Sansa agreed quietly, before letting out a humourless laugh. “I was thinking of how happy I was, and how much happier I am here than in King’s Landing, and I couldn’t help it. Even happy thoughts lead back to…” she trailed off.

“You’ll get better, Sans.” Arya said with such certainty, Sansa couldn’t help but believe it a little herself. “It’s not forever. You’ll get better.”

A hand from across from the table grabbed her own. “We’re gonna be okay, little sister.” Robb said, eyes identical to hers full of love. She can’t help the small smile that crosses her face. 

“Thanks, Ben Shapiro.” Sansa responded smirking, joking mostly to show that she’s okay. _And to change the bloody subject._

“Noooo, his voice isn’t whiny enough to be Ben Shapiro.” Arya said, laughing. “He strikes me as more of a Brock Turner type. Just because she’s dressed a certain way, doesn’t mean she’s asking for it, Bobby.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Apologies, Bob.”

“That, too.”

“Bobert?”

“Alright, I’m done with you.” Bobert said, getting up from the booth. “I’m going to pay—”

“Doing your part to fight the wage gap.” Arya interrupted. “I’m proud of you, Bobert. This is a step in the right direction.”

“I’m going to pay,” Robb repeated, thoroughly exasperated, “Because you have school to get back to, and I’m not buying that whole _‘I have a spare period!’_ bullshit. Finish your bloody fruit bowl, before Mum gets a call from attendance.” He walked away to join the small line at the counter.

“The funniest part is that it takes him _embarrassingly_ long to realize that I’m joking.” Arya said gleefully after Robb left. “But ever since Jeyne’s mother told him he had to _‘combat his toxic masculinity’_ in front of everyone, I can’t quite help myself.”

“It’s a shame they broke up.” Sansa said. “I liked Jeyne. But her mother needs to stop reading Salon.” Arya hummed in agreement.

The sisters fell into comfortable silence. Sansa had been surprised how well they had got on since she’d been back. 

. . .

The panic attacks hadn’t been a problem freshman year, but that was because Joffrey had yet to show his true colours. He had been courteous, and charming. Just like he had been when Robert Baratheon had visited their father the summer before her senior year of high school. The insults, criticisms, and derogatory words had begun when Sansa had visited him during summer. He hadn’t seen the need to _behave_ , as his awful mother had put it, with no potentially concerned students around to step in. They had gotten a place together to begin sophomore year, and once there were closed doors to hide behind, he had not held back. The panic attacks began not long after. 

Joffrey beat her when she wore her hair in a way he didn’t like. Joffrey beat her if her outfit showed too much skin for his tastes. Joffrey beat her if she said no, late at night, when he would crawl on top of her.

Sansa was only allowed to talk to his friends. Joffrey would go through her phone. Texts, call logs, Instagram and Twitter DMs, Snapchat, all of it. Making sure she wasn’t talking to any guys that weren’t _him_. He’d lost his mind when he saw Sansa speaking to Robb on FaceTime. Hadn’t asked questions, hadn’t even started yelling. He’d just started swinging.

Sansa hadn’t been able to hang up in time. Robb didn’t see all of it, but he saw enough. A day later, Robb was at her door, ready to commit murder. Joffrey hadn’t been in, and hadn’t bothered to tell Sansa where he was going. Robb’s violent search of the flat, which included banging open doors, and yelling for Joffrey to _‘Come out and die!’_ had triggered one of her worst panic attacks yet. Seeing his little sister hyperventilating and sobbing while seated on the kitchen floor had sobered Robb up immediately. 

“We’re going home, Sans.” He had whispered. “You’re gonna see Mum and Dad, Arya, Bran and Rickon. They’re gonna welcome you with the biggest hug. Mum’s gonna make you lasagna, and lemon cakes. Lady’s gonna drown you in kisses. I promise you, you’ll never see him again. He’ll _never_ hurt you again. I swear on my life. Let’s go home. Okay?”

“Okay.”

That was all she had said. He packed up all her stuff, and brought it to the rental car. He bought her a plane ticket, and and they touched down in Wintertown International Airport before midnight. 

Sansa had stayed at Robb’s that night. He brought her over to the family home the next day, around noon. Arya had been home for lunch, and had greeted her with a bewildered “What the fuck are you doing here?”

She hadn’t meant for it to happen. Obviously. But her voice was slightly deeper than Sansa remembered, and it sounded _so much_ like Joffrey. _I never realized how high his voice was._ Every muscle in her body stiffened, her breathing got short, and fear gripped her body. All she could see was cruel green eyes, glinting with maliciousness. She had stood motionless, waiting to be struck.

But Arya had talked softly, and slowly, telling her to _breathe_ , and that she was _safe_. When Sansa had calmed enough to be touched, Arya had taken Sansa’s hands in her own, rubbing soothing circles on her wrists. _In, out. In, out. In, out._ Arya had repeated it like a mantra. And Sansa had come out of the panic attack quicker than any in a long time.

“How did you do that?” Sansa had asked after.

“My friend Weasel has panic attacks.” Arya had responded. “She was kidnapped for a few weeks when she was like, six, or something. It still fucks her up. I learned on WebMD, or something.”

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.”  
“No, _seriously._ ” Sansa had said. “ _Thank you_. I’ve never gotten out of one that bad so quickly.”

“No, _seriously._ ” Arya had responded, dead serious. “ _Anytime._ You’re my sister. And panic attacks are no joke. I’ll help as often as I can.”

. . .

Sansa and Arya had been closer than ever in the following month. They hung out, saw movies, watched bad TV, watched _good_ TV, and it was amazing. They did _sisterly_ things. For the first time in their entire lives, they acted like sisters. Arya’s blunt honesty and to-the-point way of speaking was a breath of fresh air that Sansa appreciated more every day. She wanted to find that ten year old girl that she used to be, the one that used to wish that _Jeyne fucking Poole_ was her sister instead of Arya, and slap her upside the head. _Is it considered child abuse if the child, like, kinda deserves it?_

And Arya had come to a similar realization. She had even told Sansa about a _crush_. _Arya! With a crush!_ The girl who said she would never marry in her life like it was her mantra for _years_ , had a crush, and on one of her best friends at that. Some massive car mechanic who had graduated the year previous. It was lunacy. And Sansa loved it. 

Sansa was broken out of her reverie by the sound of an iPhone ringtone. Both Sansa and Arya checked their purses for their phones, but they weren’t the culprits. Robb had seemingly left his phone on the table, by his plate. 

The caller ID displayed _Westerosi Armed Forces - EMERG_.

_Weird._

Sansa and Arya exchanged glances.

“Should we get it?” Arya asked.

“But why would they call Robb in the first place?”  
“It says ‘ _EMERG_ ’. That sounds important.”

“Yeah, probably.”

Sansa went to pick it up, but just as she was about to swipe to answer, the phone stopped ringing, likely going to voicemail.

“If it really is an emergency,” Arya pointed out. “They’ll call again.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Sansa said, handing Arya the phone. “But why would the _Westerosi Armed Forces_ call Robb?”

“Why would _who_ call me?” Robb said as he approached the table, receipt in hand.

“Check for yourself.” Arya said, handing him his phone.

“Missed call from Westerosi Armed For…” Robb trailed off. All the colour had drained from his face. He looked _terrified._

“You alright?” Arya asked, confused.

Robb sat back down in the booth, hands shaking slightly.

“Who do we know that’s in the army?” Robb asked quietly. 

“Jon’s in the army.” Arya said, as if it were obvious. “We all know that. But why would they call you?” 

Robb knew the answer to the question. Sansa could tell. She could also tell that he _really_ didn't like the answer.

“I forced Jon to put me as his emergency contact.” Robb said quietly. “He couldn’t put his mum, obviously, and he wants nothing to do with his dad, and so he was going to leave it blank. But then we would never know if something happened to him. So I told him to put my cell number. _Just in case_. That’s all it was supposed to be. _Just in case…_ ” he trailed off again, saying the last part to himself, before clearing his throat. “They… they left a message. _Oh fuck…_ ”

Robb typed in his voicemail password, and let the message play.

_“Good morning, Robb Stark. This is Lieutenant Jeor Mormont. Eight hours ago, we received word that the team led by Sergeant Jon Snow, for whom you are listed as the only emergency contact, has been ambushed in the Disputed Lands, near Myr. All four team members have been confirmed dead, and Sergeant Jon Snow has been confirmed missing in action. I apologize that we cannot provide further information. We will keep you updated as we learn more. Should you have further questions, simply dial this number and ask for Lieutenant Jeor Mormont. My condolences. He… he’s a good lad. Resilient, too. Don’t lose faith.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've never written this kind of thing before. I usually stay away from romance, but i'm trying something new. any advice is welcome!
> 
> **Preview for next chapter:**
> 
> “Arya?”
> 
> Arya’s teary eyes met Sansa’s.
> 
> “He’s gonna be okay.” Sansa said, trying to return a whole month of comfort and love in just a stare, before unbuckling her seatbelt, and helping her out. “Let’s get into the house. You said you hadn’t seen that new Mandalorian episo—”
> 
> “Ninety percent of M.I.A.s are confirmed dead within twenty four hours.” Arya said quietly, before suppressing a sob. “I’ve always hated math.”
> 
> Sansa pulled her little sister into a hug, and let Arya cry on her shoulder.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reactions, and a little backstory.

SANSA

Sansa drove home in Robb’s car.

Robb was fidgeting like crazy. Worry and stress were _radiating_ off of him. Arya wasn’t much better. She wasn’t quite vibrating like Robb was, but her face was stone cold. The only other indication of her feelings were the tear stains on her cheeks she hadn’t wiped away yet. She hadn’t said a word since the message had ended.

Sansa had tried to get them out of the diner as quickly as possible. 

. . .

_“—he’s a good lad. Resilient, too. Don’t lose faith.”_

_THUD_

_“End of messages."_

The sound of Robb’s phone slipping from his hand and onto the diner tabletop drew a few eyes. Robb was breathing deep, barely controlled breaths. Arya had her hand over her mouth, and her eyes were misty. 

_Oh, Jon._

_I’ll never be able to hear him say “I told you so.”_

Sansa banished that thought from her head, along with any tears that threatened to spill. 

She was thinking far too pessimistically. Once her critical brain took over, she realized that there was much more hope than initially inferred. The lieutenant said _missing_ , not _dead_. 

_He even went so far as to differentiate the fates of Jon and his team. The members of his team are_ dead _, Jon is_ missing _._

Neither of Sansa’s siblings had moved. _I’m going to have to get them moving. They knew him better than me. They’d probably prefer to grieve in private._

“Let’s get out of here, yeah?” Sansa murmured to her siblings, neither of whom had moved since the message ended. Arya was the first one to snap out of her trance, turning and giving Sansa a small, teary nod. The two sisters got out of the booth, and took their jackets off of the hangers. 

When they turned back, Robb still hadn’t moved.

“Robb,” Sansa said quietly. “let’s—”

“I have to call him.” Robb’s strangled voice interrupted. Sansa shared a look with Arya.

“What?” Sansa implored gently. _Call who? Not the time for the pronoun game, brother._

“He said that if I had any questions, I should call him.” _Oh. He means the lieutenant._

“Let’s do it in the car, okay?” Sansa suggested. She laid a gentle hand on her brother’s shoulder, feeling him relax slightly. He nodded, and got up from the booth shakily, and Sansa swiped the keys from the tabletop before he could pick them up. _He’s in no condition to drive._ Robb didn’t even give her a look of protest. They began walking towards the exit, when Gage spotted them leaving from the kitchen

“Always good to have you, little Starks!” Gage called. “Come back s—”

“Thanks, Gage!” Sansa called back hurriedly. She had a hand on both of her siblings’ back, trying to lead them out as quickly as she could. _Any minute now Robb is going to explode._

The chime above the door rang as Sansa ushered Robb and Arya out, and they began walking briskly towards Robb’s SUV. 

When the last car door was slammed shut, Robb let it out.

“The stubborn FUCKING fool!” He yelled, tears falling. “‘ _I’ll pay my own way_ ’, he says. ‘ _Mum never accepted a handout, so I won’t start now._ ’ Fuck him and his fucking _morals_. Morals _don’t fucking matter_ if you’re… if you’re… I _told_ him… the stubborn shit didn’t listen and now he’s… now he’s…” he voice broke, and he was trying to control his breathing.

“He’s not.” Sansa said gently. “They said _missing_ , Robb. He’s still—”

“They said that about Uncle Benjen too!” Robb interrupted loudly. Much to her own annoyance, Sansa flinched a little at the tone of his voice. Robb stopped his ranting, apology ready, before Sansa interrupted him.

“It’s fine.” Sansa huffed. “Just… keep it together for a five minute drive, okay?”

“I should still call—”

“Wait until we get home.” Sansa said, more gently. “Please?”

Robb nodded, and Sansa pulled out of the parking spot.

. . .

Sansa parked the car, noting with relief that her mother’s Escalade was still in the driveway. _She’ll be a much better help._ Sansa remembered her mother mentioned something about a 12:30 lunch meeting, and so she would be leaving soon. _But not yet, thank the gods._

Robb was out of the passenger seat immediately, taking the steps up to the front doors two at a time. _Just don’t put another hole in the wall, Robby._

Robb was an angry griever. When Uncle Benjen had been confirmed dead overseas, just two years ago, Robb had put a hole in the wall of his childhood bedroom. He’d broken three fingers. Sansa suspected he was experiencing a similar sense of _deja vu_ that she was.

_Uncle Benjen was ‘missing in action’ too_ , the paranoid Sansa whispered.

_This will be different!_ , the optimistic one hissed back.

Sansa got out, and opened the door to the backseat to grab her purse.

Arya still had not moved from the backseat. 

“Arya?”

Arya’s teary eyes met Sansa’s.

“He’s gonna be okay.” Sansa said, trying to return a whole month of comfort and love in just a stare, before unbuckling her seatbelt, and helping her out. “Let’s get into the house. You said you hadn’t seen that new Mandalorian episo—”

“Ninety percent of M.I.A.s are confirmed dead within twenty four hours.” Arya said quietly, before suppressing a sob. “I’ve always hated math.”

Sansa pulled her little sister into a hug, and let Arya cry on her shoulder. 

“It’s alright.” Sansa said, rubbing soothing circles on Arya’s back, thinking desperately for some way to comfort her sister. _Aha!,_ she thought, remembering something Robb had proudly proclaimed at a family dinner last summer.

“Isn’t he the youngest sergeant in the last fourteen or fifteen years,?” Sansa asked soothingly. “He’s used to beating the odds. Don’t count him out just yet.”

That seemed to do the trick. _For the time being, anyway._ Arya’s sobs slowly subsided, and she extracted herself from Sansa’s embrace after a few more minutes, and walked slowly, but steadily, to the front doors.

As she watched her sister go, Sansa felt a pang of guilt for how _unaffected_ she thought she was coming across. Arya and Robb were clearly devastated, and Bran and Rickon would be as well, once they got home. 

_He’s been around since you could walk. Altogether, he’s spent more than six months living under the same roof as you. At least try to convince people that you give a fuck._

_Stop it,_ she chastised herself. _I_ do _care. They just care more. I’ll grieve when I can. They need me right now._

Amongst the current grief, Sansa felt proud at how well she was able to put a stop to her self-loathing thoughts. That was another thing she and Dr. Luwin had focused on. 

The physical abuse left scars you could see, but the emotional abuse left scars that were under the surface. If there was one thing Joffrey was good at, it was making Sansa feel _inadequate._

Depending on the day, and on his mood, Sansa would be either too skinny, or too fat. She would either be talking his ear off, or had _forgotten how to use her fucking voice_. She would be too emotional, and needed to _take a fucking Ambien or something_ , or she could be an emotionless wall, and _was like dating a robot instead of a real person_. She either _never fucking does anything, like a fucking loner_ , or was cheating on him, _like the whore mother says you are_. 

She was always doing something wrong. He always found something to pick on.

The continued nasty criticisms and insults about every minute detail on her appearance, personality, and social life left her self esteem at the bottom of the Narrow Sea. The first time she’d realized something was off was when she was eating a late night Postmates at Robb’s, the night they’d gotten back from King’s Landing.

. . .

“I have no idea how Gage does twenty four hours.” Robb said with a smile, and a bite of his burger. “You think she lives there?”

“I don’t know.” Sansa responded with a small smile. She’d missed smiling. _Real ones, at least._ “This Reuben was definitely made by someone well rested, I’d reckon.” 

Robb smiled at that, doing little to settle Sansa’s growing unease. The dread that had been building ever since she’d sat down on the plane had nearly reached its boiling point.

“Do you think…” Sansa started in a small voice. “Do you think Mum and Dad will be mad at me?”

“Gods no!” Robb exclaimed. “You know they didn’t like the idea of you going down there in the first place. And it’s not like it’s your fault you had a monster for a boyfriend.”

“But they’re going to know I lied to them.” Sansa said. “That every time they asked ‘ _How’s it going?_ ’, or ‘ _Have a good day?_ ’, I lied through my teeth.”

“They are going to be happy to have their daughter home, and safe.” Robb countered with a firm look.

“But—”

“Why are you so insistent on blaming yourself, Sansa?”

“I… But it’s my fault.”

“No, it isn’t.” Robb said, bewildered. “Did you tell him to do all of those horrible things? Of course not. This is not even remotely your fault, Sansa. I won’t allow you to think that way.”

“It’s always my fault.” Sansa blurted out meekly before she could stop herself. The pitying look Robb gave her stayed with her a long time. 

Slowly, but surely, Sansa began working on how to love herself again.

_It’s not my fault._

. . .

“How are you doing, darling?”

Sansa muted the TV as her mother sat down next to her on the loveseat. Judge Judy had just finished _flaming_ some deadbeat dad for not taking care of his son. 

“Staying strong.” Sansa responded. “For them.”

Catelyn hummed in agreement. She and Sansa had shared the comforting duty since the three eldest had gotten home, Catelyn having cleared the rest of her day. Arya had taken the rest of the day from school. Bran was due home from Wintertown High within the hour, and Rickon shortly after from middle school. They didn’t know yet. 

_Bran will be rational about it, like me. Rickon will take the news hard, however._

“Who’s Judge Judy bullying this afternoon?” Catelyn asked, likely trying to change the subject.

“A deadbeat dad who won’t take care of his son.” Sansa said bitterly. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

Catelyn gave a pained smile, and looked down.

“It’s good that you’re taking some time for yourself.” Catelyn said after a moment. “He may not have meant as much to you as he did to your siblings, but you deserve some time to grieve.”

“He’s not dead, Mum.” Sansa insisted. _I’ve been saying that a lot today._ “He’s _missing._ ”

Her mother gave her a forced smile. _She does not share my hopefulness, I guess._

None of them did. This wasn’t the first time the Stark family had dealt with someone close being “ _missing in action._ ” Lieutenant Benjen Stark had been declared missing for a month, before the Dothraki fundamentalists he’d been attempting to peacefully remove from power had shown up to a negotiation with his head in a bag. 

The Stark family had been hopeful the entire month, Sansa’s mother especially so. Whenever someone began to lose faith, Catelyn’s stubborn optimism always managed to draw them out of their despondence. 

And then they had received the news of his death.

Sansa could tell that her mother was attempting to play the same role this time around, but her heart wasn’t in it. _Once bitten, twice shy._

Sansa was not so easily swayed to despair as the rest of her family, however. 

Not two months ago, Sansa was under the thumb of an abusive monster. She’d lived in fear everyday, not knowing whether the most insignificant of comments would leave her in the hospital, or not. She’d not seen any possible way to get out. _This is my life now,_ she would think despairingly. She’d been at complete rock bottom. And completely hopeless.

But she’d gotten out. And she was happier now than she’d been in years.

_I’ve learned to not give up hope so easily._

“Do you think…” her mother began hesitantly. “Do you think we should call his father’s family?”

“He’s the Prime Minister, Mum.” Sansa said sardonically. “I’m sure he’ll find out soon enough.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to hear it from people who care for his son?” Catelyn asked. “And not from some military official?”

“Jon hates his father.” Sansa reminded her. “He’d probably rather Targaryen find out through some military guy.”

“I thought he liked a few of them.” Catelyn said. “Doesn’t he have a decent relationship with his half-sister?”

“You’re asking the wrong person, Mum.” Sansa said quietly. “The only thing I know about the Targaryens is that Rhaegar Targaryen has looked thirty five for, like, twenty years. And I think I remember Robb and Theon teasing Jon about his aunt fancying him. Robb or Arya would know better. Or even Dad.”

“I’ll wait until your father gets home.” Catelyn decided on after a beat, standing up. “He still doesn’t know. He won’t take it well. Wouldn’t want him to get a phone call from the Prime Minister of Westeros in the middle of a board meeting.” 

Sansa humoured her mother’s attempt at breaking the tension with a small chuckle, and then her mother’s phone rang. It was a quick fifteen second call, and she hung up with a sigh.

“They forgot to send the wheelchair accessible bus.” Catelyn said with frustration. “ _Again_. This is the _third time_ in the last two weeks. I’m going to wring that fat bus driver’s neck, Seven save me…” she trailed off muttering, leaving to pick up Bran.

In her mother’s absence, Sansa allowed herself a chance to _really_ reflect on her relationship with Jon Snow.

He’d been around since before she could remember. Robb had brought him home on the second day of junior kindergarten, and the two had been inseparable ever since. Add Theon Greyjoy to the mix in first grade, and the three of them were a constant presence in the Stark house. 

Jon had been raised by a single mother. The first time Lyanna Snow had come by to pick him up, she had accidentally reunited with one of her best friends from high school: Sansa’s father. Jon and Lyanna had stayed for dinner that night, and had been invited many, many times after. At both Ned and Catelyn’s insistence, they were over for every Thanksgiving and Christmas for the next twelve years.

And then the car crash happened.

Lyanna had been on her way to a Christmas party at Stark house, after a late shift at the hospital, when a drunk driver in a pickup truck ran a red light and t-boned Lyanna’s old Saturn sedan.

Lyanna had died almost instantly, they were told. 

Lawyers did lawyer things, and Jon was moved out of the basement apartment his mum had owned and into one of the many spare bedrooms that the Starks had. 

While Jon had always had a good relationship with his best friend’s younger siblings, Sansa suspected that it was during those six months where he really got close to them. Bran and Rickon already saw him as a sort of older cousin, but Jon and Arya got especially close. 

Arya was in her _hero phase_ , as their father had affectionately titled it. She would stand up to any bully, no matter the target. If someone was alone during recess, she invited them to play with her. And if someone was sad, she made it her personal mission to bring a smile to their face. 

Arya followed Jon around for a week, cracking joke after joke, before she got him to break from his brooding. Jon would indulge Arya’s tomboyish ways, and she would cheer him up in return. Before long, they were inseparable. 

Sansa was an exception to the rule, for the most part. She liked him just fine, but she never made an effort to know him. Sansa knew him only as her favourite of Robb’s friends. That was it. 

She strained to remember more. _If worst comes to worst, I want to remember as much as possible._ Jon was the only one of Robb’s friends who had never disgustingly flirted with her, in the way teenage boys were wont to do. _Or twenty three year old boys, in Theon’s case._

Sansa’s friends at the time seemed to like him more than she did. _A different sort of ‘like.’_ She remembered Myranda Royce, in particular, had claimed more than once that she’d wanted to “hop on it _._ ” _Though_ , Sansa mused, _there isn’t much Randa wouldn’t hop on._ The last time Sansa had called, Randa was “grieving” the death of her retired billionaire husband, in the Vale. The same husband who’d left her _all_ of his money. _Good on her, honestly. Secure the bag, sis._

Jon had always been so _gloomy_ , fourteen year old Sansa had thought. Even before his mother died, he seemed to have some sort of smiling allergy. _He did have a nice smile_ , Sansa reflected. _He didn’t use it enough._

Six months after the death of his mother, Jon’s father came to collect him. _Well, not his father. Someone on his father’s payroll._ He was whisked away to some boarding school in King’s Landing, and the Starks didn’t hear from him again for another three years.

He’d visited on his eighteenth birthday, and Sansa had been floored by how _good_ he looked. He’d taken to putting his unruly mop of curly hair into a tight bun, and had clearly found his way into a gym, filling out his frame with lean muscle. _Maybe Randa has a point._

A few things had confused Sansa at the time, however. He always seemed _tired_ , despite sleeping past noon each of the few days he’d been there. And, somehow, he smiled even less. _The South has made him_ more _gloomy._

The visit went well at first. Everyone had been delighted to see him after such time. It soured quickly though, when he told the Starks that he was enlisting in the army, to pay for university, through one of their tuition assistance programs. Both Robb and Ned fought him on it, the latter offering to pay for his tuition instead, but Jon refused. What followed was a three day argument that left Jon on worse terms with the Starks than he had ever been. 

Sansa had tried breaking the tension by asking Jon about the South. Robert Baratheon and his family had only visited two weeks ago, and Sansa’s dreams of King’s Landing were brighter than ever. But, Jon had nothing but contempt for King’s Landing, Sansa soon found. 

“It’s awful.” Jon had said with a frown. “It smells like shit, and everyone is so _fake_. It’d be easier to find a polar bear in a snowstorm than to find a real friend in King’s Landing.”

“But didn’t you go to Visenya’s Hill Academy?” Sansa had asked, shocked. _It’s the most prestigious boarding school in Westeros!_

“I did.” Jon confirmed with a grimace. “It’s a school full of conceited shits.”

“But Joffrey said—”

“Joffrey? Baratheon?!” Jon had asked incredulously. “He is the _king_ of conceited shits. He was a year below me at Visenya’s Hill. Biggest prick I’ve ever met in my life. I saw him publicly ridicule a _twelve year old_ for having a rip in his jeans.”

“He wouldn’t!” Sansa had protested. “He was so sweet! And charming!”

Jon had only shook his head and scoffed, and given her a look that Sansa now understood was pitying. “You’ll move back here before I’m discharged. I would bet my car on it.”

“I won’t.” Sansa had insisted stubbornly.

“If you say so.” Jon had said with a chuckle. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

_Now I may never get the chance to tell him how right he was._

. . .

Dinner that night had been a solemn affair. Sansa’s mother broke the news to Bran, Rickon, and Ned. Bran’s eyes didn’t leave his plate for the remainder of dinner. Rickon declared that he was taking Shaggydog on a walk, almost immediately. _He needs to cool off, probably. So very like Robb._

Sansa’s father gently prodded for details, and when the younger two left the table, Robb played him the message. Ned hung his face in his hands, and let out a weary sigh.

“Mormont’s an old friend of mine.” He said then, surprising the table. “We were in high school, then in basic together. Don’t worry about calling him, Robb. I’ll take care of it.”

“Let me at least—”

“I’ll fill you in, after.” Ned interrupted his son gently. “Trust me. I can get him to tell me more than he normally would be allowed to.”

. . .

Sansa could hear a low murmuring of voices coming from her father’s home office. She crept closer, not wanting to interrupt, but too curious to remember how unladylike it was to eavesdrop.

“… if I had known—” a gruff voice said on speaker phone.

“It’s alright, Jeor.” Sansa’s father responded grimly. “I assume he didn’t share much about his family, anyhow.”

“He told me that his mum died,” the voice on the phone, _Jeor_ , answered. _It’s the same guy from the phone message._ “And that he was serving so that he could go to college. That’s it. I asked him about his emergency contact when I was thinking of promoting him, and all the lad said was ‘ _my friend Robb._ ’”

Ned let out a humourless chuckle. _Sounds like Jon, alright_ , Sansa thought sadly.

“Jeor, I’m asking you this as an old friend, not as a grieving family member.” Sansa’s father began. Sansa leaned closer to the door, not wanting to miss a thing. “Can you tell me _anything_ more than ‘ _missing in action_ ’? Anything at all? He’s the only thing I have left of one of my dearest friends. Please…” Her father’s voice broke off in emotion. 

“Alright, Ned.” Jeor conceded reluctantly. “I can only give you the bare minimum though, okay?”

“Anything.” Ned pleaded.

“He was betrayed by his own team.” Jeor said solemnly. Sansa could hear her father’s gasp, and she struggled to stifle one of her own. “Four older men, prickly about having to take commands from a man half their age would be my guess, but we’ll never know unless Snow tells us. They shot him, we think, and left him for dead. Without someone who knew our intelligence, and the locations of enemy troops, the four team members walked straight into a trap. Myrish guerrilla troops slaughtered them. But when we looked for Snow’s body with our surveillance equipment, it was nowhere to be found.”

“So captured, then.” Sansa’s father surmised, voice strained. “By the gods…”

Sansa tuned out the rest of the conversation, nearly missing Jeor’s confirmation of her father’s assumption. 

_Captured_. 

Her optimism all but abandoned her.

_Uncle Benjen was captured too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that first chapter was something I wrote while high after coming home from a _bowling alley_ of all places.
> 
> And people actually liked it????
> 
> So, here is another chapter. I have no idea if I'm going to finish this. 
> 
> I want to, it's just not the genre I have any experience writing in.
> 
> All criticism welcome!
> 
> **Preview for the next chapter:**
> 
> “We have orders!” Jon bellowed, stopping and turning back to the four older men trailing his footsteps. “Intelligence suggests that Cragas Drahar, with backing from the magister of Myr, was responsible for the Summerhall bombing. I could give _two fucks_ what some conspiracy theorist on TV has to say about it. If you want any rest, _at all_ , before nightfall, you’ll shut the fuck up, and pick up the bloody pace. Yes?”
> 
> _A ridiculous theory, Wittlestick. Rhaegar would never kill innocent people. He prefers to steal them from the only family they’ve ever known, uproot their lives completely, become both controlling AND distant at the same time, and make their lives miserable._
> 
> _What were we talking about again?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daggers in the dark, meet gunshots in the Disputed Lands.
> 
> Just doesn't have the same ring to it, does it?

JON

“Can we stop soon, sir?”

Jon brushed his hair out of his face, damp with sweat from the hot sun, and sighed in exasperation. _That’s the fourth time. He’s acting like a child on a road trip._

“Are your feet sore, Corporal Marsh?” Jon asked mockingly, thoroughly fed up. “It’s barely midday. Should we send you back to basic?”

“We’ve been walking for three hours straight, sir.” Marsh protested stubbornly, face flushing an even deeper red than usual at the insult. “Just a—”

“So we’ve only got one more hour of walking, then.” Jon interrupted firmly. “The quicker we get there, the quicker we can set up camp, and the more time we have to gather intel. We’ve been over this, Corporal.”

“Not all of us have young legs like you, boy.” Private Slynt spit out through heaving breaths. “What difference would fifteen minutes make?”

_Boy, he calls me. Why enlist at your age if you’re going to complain about it the entire time?_

“Life and death, potentially.” Jon said firmly, putting an end to all protest. “Lieutenant Mormont wants a confirmed location on Cragas Drahar, and so I will deliver him a confirmed location on Cragas Drahar! Without failure!”

“He might not even have been behind Summerhall, you know.” Private Wittlestick added unhelpfully. Jon fought down a groan. _Not this shit again._ “Axell Florent from Fox News reckons that it was an inside job. Says Targaryen did it to drum up sympathy with voters—”

“We have orders!” Jon bellowed, stopping and turning back to the four older men trailing his footsteps. “Intelligence suggests that Cragas Drahar, with backing from the magister of Myr, was responsible for the Summerhall bombing. I could give _two fucks_ what some conspiracy theorist on TV has to say about it. If you want any rest, _at all_ , before nightfall, you’ll shut the fuck up, and pick up the bloody pace. Yes?”

_A ridiculous theory, Wittlestick. Rhaegar would never kill innocent people. He prefers to steal them from the only family they’ve ever known, uproot their lives completely, become both controlling AND distant at the same time, and make their lives miserable._

_What were we talking about again?_

“Yes, sir,” came the chorus of grumbling from his team, and they resumed their trek.

_Marsh, Slynt, Wittlestick, and Thorne. Fucking useless, the lot of them. At least Corporal Thorne can shoot somewhat._

_It’s times like this where I miss the damn Xanax._

_ Three _ _months,_ Jon reminded himself. _In three months I'll be home, and ready to go to college. Just tough it out for three more months._

Private Wittlestick was the youngest of his team, in his late thirties. Marsh and Thorne were in their early forties, and Slynt was pushing fifty. 

Jon has _no clue_ how he ended up leading a team of cranky men, twice his age. 

_Well, I have a few ideas._

While they were only, technically, rumours, _that everyone knew to be true_ , Jon surmised that the only reason Slynt and Marsh were on an assignment this important was because they had done some _less-than-legal_ favours for Major General Lannister, back when he had been Senator Tywin. Wittlestick was getting a transfer soon, and Mormont had wanted to squeeze one last assignment out of him. And Thorne was retiring, and so this mission would be his last.

_And they all hate me. With the favour Mormont shows me, it’s not all that surprising._

They walked another hour, in blissful silence, and arrived to their destination: A clearing on a hill, that overlooked an isolated mansion, crawling with armed guards. _If Mormont’s right, this is where the fucker will be._

The men set up camp, and Jon grabbed binoculars from his knapsack, training them on the house. 

“Any sign of him?” Thorne said from beside him. 

“Not yet.” Jon responded after a moment, moving to the windows after checking the possible entrances.

He went over the ground floor windows, with no luck. But, as he made his way to a balcony on the top floor, he struck gold.

“We got him!” Jon exclaimed, handing Thorne the binoculars. "There, on the balcony."

The man in question, who was undoubtedly the infamous Myrish terrorist Cragas Drahar, was standing on a balcony, with an open button-up on and board shorts around his ankles, being _entertained_ by two naked women with _actual brands_ on their backs. _Fucking bed slaves. As if I couldn’t hate this guy any more._

“Let’s go get him, then!” Slynt suggested excitedly.

“No.” Jon said, shutting that down immediately. “Our orders were to confirm his location. I’ll radio to Mormont, and see what he says.”

“Bugger that!” Slynt exclaimed, eyes gleaming with greed. “Think of the press we’ll get! _The Avengers of Summerhall._ We’d dominate the headlines for weeks! We’d be celebrities!”

“And you’d be dishonourably discharged for insubordination.” Jon shot back while turning around, sick and tired of Slynt’s defiance. “For all we know, Mormont wants him captured, not killed. _We wait for Mormont’s word._ ”

“Who in Seven hells cares about being _dishonourably discharged?_ ” Slynt asked mockingly with a snicker. “Think of the fucking money we’d make off of this!”

“No, Private Slynt!” Jon snapped angrily. “That’s an order!”

“And who are you to _order_ me, boy?” Slynt sneered back.

“Sergeant Jon Snow, and your superior. You’d best remember that, Slynt.” Jon spat coldly. Slynt scoffed.

“Think of the fame, lads!” Slynt said to the other members of the team. “The medals, the glory, the _fucking cash!_ Are you really gonna let some young, pretty boy hold you back from _millions?_ I sure as hell won’t.”

“Well it’s a good thing you’re not in command, isn’t it _Private?_ ” Jon sneered back at him, moving his hand slowly to his sidearm. _Just in case._ “And even if you _dispose_ of me, you’d still have to answer to Thorne, and then Marsh. Give it up, man.”

“Right you are, Snow.” Thorne sneered behind Jon’s back.

_CRACK!_

Jon felt something heavy, and metal, hit him in the back of his head. 

_Hard._

Jon vision went blurry, and he crumpled to the desert floor, landing on his stomach. He was fighting hard not to lose consciousness. _The fucker just pistol whipped me._

The laughter of the men, _his men_ , sounded all distorted and fuzzy. 

Jon thought he heard the faint sound of a gun cocking.

He tried to get up. He got to his hands and knees.

_I need to get to the radio. I need to tell—_

**_BANG!_ **

**_BANG!_ **

**_BANG!_ **

Pain exploded across Jon’s back, and he lost all of his strength and slammed face first back onto the sand. 

_They shot me…_

“Roll him over, Janos.” A voice spoke, somewhere. “I want to see the bastard’s face when I kill him.”

_Mum never liked that word._

_They shot me, Mum._

_Mum..._

“See you around, Snow.”

**_BANG!_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is short, and only one scene, but I have a longer one coming soon, that takes place after this. 
> 
> Consider this a part 1, of sorts. Or a teaser.
> 
> This felt just a little _too_ good to end on. Ya feel me?
> 
> **Preview for next chapter:**
> 
> “You’re very lucky.” The woman said softly. “That bullet missed your heart by less than a centimeter, and nearly nicked a large artery. A few millimeters to the left, and you’d have been long dead by the time they found you. But I managed to stop the bleeding, and remove the bullet without causing any more damage.”
> 
> Jon stared at her in awe. _I should be dead_ , he realized with shock, and then anger. _They_ wanted _me dead. Thorne tried to fucking kill me._
> 
> “The men I was with—”
> 
> “Dead.” The woman said tonelessly. “I don’t know how, nor why, nor where. All I’d overheard is that they were fools, and are now dead.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deal, or No Deal!

JON

Jon awoke feeling cold, and confused.

The room was dark, but there were no windows, so the time of day remained a mystery. The only source of light was a faint glowing from a small lamp on the desk to the left of his cot. The only other things that occupied the desk were a red solo cup, and a small metal blade. _A scalpel_ , Jon realized. His mother had brought one home from the hospital when he was younger, and he recognized it immediately. He also noticed that his left hand was handcuffed to the side of his cot. _Strange._

The back of his head was pounding, and his throat felt like sandpaper. He tried to reach for the solo cup, across his body, but that proved to be a mistake. He let out a loud groan as his entire back and a spot on his chest screamed with pain, and fell weightless back to the cot. _Why am I…_

It all came back to him at once.

_“See you around, Snow”_

**_BANG!_ **

“That might not be the best idea, right now.”

Whatever grogginess he felt promptly fled, as Jon went on high alert. He sat up quickly, barely ignoring the hot knives stabbing him over and over across his torso, and grabbed the scalpel, holding it in a defensive stance.

“Stay back!” He warned, scanning the room. He cleared his parched throat, fighting off a very un-manly whine at the intense pain assaulting his back and chest.

A woman stepped into view, hands raised in front of her, as if trying to calm an angry dog.

“Calm down. It’s alright.” The woman said placatingly, but authoritatively. Her eyes were wide with fear, but also a bit of defiance. She was slim, with long dark hair and very beautiful. “Lie back, or you’ll tear your stitches.”

She was no threat, it was clear. _She means me no harm. She almost sounded concerned._ And so, Jon did as she asked, breathing deeply as the pain slowly subsided.

“Water?” She asked kindly. Jon nodded, a bit more frantically than he’d intended. She handed him the cup, and he drank eagerly, water trickling down his chin, past his dog tags, to his bare chest. He grimaced a a sharp stinging sensation, coming from the middle of his chest, next to his heart. His breath caught in his throat. 

_By the gods…_

There was a large piece of gauze, cut in a square, taped over the centre of his chest. It likely had been white once, but now it was nearly completely red with dried blood.

“What…” Jon trailed off quietly.

“You’re very lucky.” The woman said softly. “That bullet missed your heart by less than a centimeter, and nearly nicked a large artery. A few millimeters to the left, and you’d have been long dead by the time they found you. But I managed to stop the bleeding, and remove the bullet without causing any more damage.”

Jon stared at her in awe. _I should be dead_ , he realized with shock, and then anger. _They_ wanted _me dead. Thorne tried to fucking kill me._

“The men I was with—”

“Dead.” The woman said tonelessly. “I don’t know how, nor why, nor where. All I’d overheard is that they were fools, and are now dead.”

_I already knew they were fools._

“I’m sorry for your loss.” She said softly, averting her eyes.

“Don’t be.” Jon growled, gritting his teeth. _I’ve run out of sympathy for those traitorous shits._ “The fuckers tried to mutiny. My own second in command tried to murder me.”

She seemed taken aback by his anger, and neither of them said anything for an awkward minute.

“Where am I?” Jon asked eventually. “The last thing I remember was bleeding out in the bloody desert.”

“Cragas Drahar’s mansion.” The woman said. “I’d heard you were found nearby, so if you got a look at it from the outside, you know where you are.”

“ _Seven hells._ ” Jon breathed with a small, humourless chuckle. Another minute of awkward silence passed.

“I’m Talisa. Talisa Maegyr.” The woman said with a small smile, and offered her hand for a handshake. Jon gave her a suspicious look. _As nice as you are, you don’t get to know my name. No one does. I’ll not be used as bait for my father._

“That’s nice.” Jon settled on with a tentative smile. He went to shake her hand, but grunted and grimaced as his back flared in pain.

“Oh!” Talisa said, pulling back her hand. “I’m sorry!”

“S’alright.” Jon said with a small smile, before giving her a questioning look. “My back should hurt more though, shouldn’t it? I was shot three times in the back, if I recall correctly.”

“All but one hit your kevlar.” Talisa said. “You have a fractured right shoulder blade from the impact of one, and a few cracked ribs from the impact of the other. The third bullet entered and exited near your right hip.” She gently brushed her hand over the other bandages, causing a small sting of pain to shoot through his hip.

“I see.” Jon said with a grimace, before looking Talisa in the eyes. “Thank you. For saving my life.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She said in a defeated voice, averting her gaze. “I did what I was told to. And if you’re smart, you will too.”

. . .

Jon went back to sleep soon after, letting the painkillers that Talisa had him on carry him away. 

He awoke to a cup of cold water splashing him in the face.

“What the..” Jon muttered indignantly, before noticing that there were far more people in the room then there were when he had last been awake. _However long ago that was._ There were three men in the room. The one who had just assaulted him with cold water was dressed in a business suit, and had the same bronze skin and dark hair of all the Myrish people that Jon had met so far. He wore a smirk on his face, and had a malicious glint in his eyes. 

“My apologies.” The man said, not sounding apologetic whatsoever. He waved a hand, and the two large, armed men with him went to remove Jon from his cot. Jon cried out in pain when they roughly pushed him to the floor, and struggled to rise from the ground for a few seconds before failing.

“Gentle, now.” The businessman admonished in his Myrish drawl, smirk unwavering. “This man is Magister Drahar’s honoured guest. We will treat him as such, yes? Urandi, follow me, and I’ll show you where we keep the wheelchairs. Daario, keep our guest company.”

The two men left, and the third one, Daario, helped him from the floor, and sat him on the edge of the bed. Daario did not have the look of a Myrish person. His skin was paler, and his eyes were a deep blue. He almost looked…

“Are you Tyroshi?” Jon asked quietly. Daario shot him a swift, but harsh glare, before shushing him silently. _Undercover? Maybe he’ll help me._

“I’m Sergeant Jon Snow.” Jon spoke in a hushed whisper. “Fourteenth—”

“Later!” Daario whispered back harshly. “Play along.” 

The two Myrish men came back with a wheelchair, which Jon was forced into, before being blindfolded. He felt the wheelchair move, and make a few turns. At one point he deduced that they were in an elevator, due to the standing still, and few dings. Eventually, they stopped, and the blindfold was removed. 

He had expected to be brought to see the man he was sent to spy on. _Cragas Drahar._ Infamous Myrish terrorist, responsible for the bombing of Summerhall. _1,400 dead. He’s a fucking monster._

But what he was greeted with another windowless room, light coming from a singular lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Instead of a cot and a side table, like his last room, there was a single metal chair, which had been welded and bolted into the floor. _Interrogation time, then. Brilliant._

He was removed from the wheelchair, and placed on the metal chair. He was handcuffed behind the chair, in a rather uncomfortable position, especially considering his injuries. His legs were cuffed to the legs of the chair, as well.

“That will be all, Urandi. You may go back to guarding Miss Maegyr.” The businessman said, shooing Urandi out of the room, leaving him alone with Daario, and the businessman. He pulled a wooden chair from a closet, and sat it in front of Jon. _And so it begins._

“You’re not Cragas Drahar.” Jon spoke first, in a feeble attempt to throw the man off his game.

“An observational one.” The businessman mused sarcastically, sharing a small laugh with Daario. “But no, I am not. Magister Drahar does not speak the common tongue. I do. And so, you speak with me. Sorry to disappoint.”

Jon made to respond, but he was cut off with a smack to his face from Daario, bloodying his lip.

_Play along, he says. You’d think he’d pull his punches, or smacks, a little._

“From now on, you will only speak unless spoken to.” The businessman said, still smirking. “Your friends are dead, you know?”

“I know.” Jon agreed vaguely.

“But they weren’t _really_ your friends, were they?” The businessman asked. “They shot you. Multiple times, as Miss Maegyr tells it. What kind of _friend_ does such a thing, hmm?

Jon stayed silent, not responding to the man’s taunts. If he did, he knew he wouldn’t be able to control himself. _It’s still too raw._

“They were in a real rush to kill you.” The man continued, smirk widening as he caught the clenching of Jon’s jaw. “They made no attempt to suppress the gunfire. We knew of their location immediately.”

_Fucking idiots._

“And then,” the man continued, laughing. “The fools tried to infiltrate Magister Drahar’s home and kill him. They were loud, and uncoordinated. They did not even make it twenty yards onto the property before we slaughtered them. What could you have done to make such idiotic men hate you so?”

_Nothing except rise higher than they did at a younger age._

The man had been attempting to rile Jon up. That much was obvious. It worked, nonetheless. His hands and feet were cuffed, and so he did the only thing he could.

He spit blood and saliva all over the smug man’s face.

Jon expected the man to reel back in disgust, and command his goon to give Jon a beating. The only real reaction the man gave, however, was a small look of disgust, before receiving a handkerchief from Daario, and wiping his face.

He then gave Daario a look, and Jon received another vicious smack to his face. Jon spit again, this time on the floor, to try to get the metallic taste of blood out of his mouth.

“You were in full kevlar.” The businessman continued, as if nothing had happened. “Walking hours in the hot desert sun, on a non-violent mission, in full kevlar. Your friends elected not to make that choice. You did not expect this mutiny to happen, did you?”

“You can never be too prepared.” Jon answered neutrally.

_It’s the truth. I warned them about potential ambushes. Not my fault the stupid fucks didn’t listen._

“Your caution saved your life, then.” The man said. “My men found you bleeding out in the sand, in an abandoned camp. They wanted to finish you off, but one of them noticed that you wore a few more chevrons on your shoulder than the other Westerosi we killed. _‘He is a high rank,’_ they told me. _‘He will know things.’_ I agreed. So, Sergeant…” the man trailed off, prodding for Jon’s name. 

_Not gonna happen._

“Fuck. Off.” Jon growled instead. The man’s smirk widened again, and he signalled Daario for another smack. _Fucking hell, he hits hard._

“I knew the Westerosi were strange with their naming customs,” the businessman mused. “But I hardly believe that they would name a child such a vulgar thing. What is your name, soldier?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not particularly.” The businessman said with a shrug of his shoulders. “I am simply being courteous. I intended to make you an offer, Mr. Fuck Off. An offer you would gladly take, given the alternative.”

_Not fucking likely_.

Jon responded with nothing but a glare. The businessman sighed in response.

Another smack.

“I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours?” The man drawled with a chuckle. “My last name is Kestivo. Your turn, soldier.”

_He’s adamant on this. Snow is a pretty common name. It wouldn’t hurt to give him that._

“Snow.” Jon grit out, before spitting blood out of his mouth again.

“That was not so hard, was it Mr. Snow?” Kestivo drawled with a chuckle. “So stubborn. That does not bode well for you. Perhaps you should ask Miss Maegyr of the rewards that stubbornness reaps, next time you see her.”

_She’s also a prisoner then. Poor girl._

“Now, as for my _offer_.” Kestivo said, spreading his hands like a businessman offering a deal. “You will tell me all you know of Magister Drahar. You will tell me all you know of our troop numbers, movements, locations and equipment. You will tell me all you know of how this information was procured. You will also tell me all you know of the Tyroshi troop numbers, movements, locations and equipment. I ask for no intelligence regarding the Westerosi forces. Master Drahar does not care about Westeros. Our war is with Tyrosh.”

“So what was Summerhall about then?” Jon spat, rage boiling over. Kestivo stopped Daario from smacking him again with a wave of his hand. 

“Westeros joined a war that had nothing to do with them.” Kestivo answered calmly. “We gave them a warning. When they persisted, we made sure to let them know just how much we _appreciate_ their intervention.”

“By murdering innocent people?!” Jon roared, before descending into a coughing fit, spitting up a bit more blood.

“It was a tragedy.” Kestivo agreed calmly. “But a necessary one. We warned your Prime Minster. He ignored it. A message needed to be sent.”

“You are—”

_Smack._

“As much as I’m enjoying our little war of words,” Kestivo said. “I have a real war to win. You will tell me all of the things I’ve asked for. And in return, I will free you. Unharmed. You will be given a new name, a new passport, and a new life. You will live a long life in a lavish mansion in Myr, with more money than you could ever spend, and servants to do your every bidding.”

Jon scoffed. _Please._

“Let me guess.” Jon spoke, smiling with a confidence he didn’t possess. “You’ll kill me if I refuse.”

An evil smile stretched over Kestivo’s face. Jon’s false confidence faltered a tad.

“Oh no, Mr. Snow.” Kestivo said, the malicious glint in his eye taking over his entire face. “You are no use to us dead. No, no, no. Should you be… _hesitant_ to part with the information that I have so kindly requested of you, you will not be killed. Not at first, at least. No, should you refuse, you will know pain. _True pain_. The most excruciating and unimaginable pain you have ever known, or will ever know. You may think yourself a loyal little soldier, _nobly withstanding such hardship for king and country,_ and all that nonsense. But no one will come for you. No one will rescue you. You will know every kind of pain imaginable for the rest of your insignificant life.”

_Dramatic fellow. Could’ve just said he would torture me._

“You have two options, Mr. Snow.” Kestivo said. “Enjoy the rest of your long life with everything a man could desire and more, or be subjected to the worst pain imaginable. Only after you’ve given us what we want, will we kill you. Everyone breaks, Mr. Snow. You will be begging for death, when we are done with you. But if you haven’t given us what we want, we will not grant you that mercy. You have until evening to decide.”

_I only had three months left_ , Jon thought despairingly. _Three more months and I would’ve been home. Three more months and I could’ve seen Rhaenys again. Three more months and I could’ve seen the Starks again. Apologize for how I spoke with them. Apologize for_ everything _. Now I may never get that chance._

Jon steeled his resolve. 

His mother’s words came back to him then, as they often do. 

_Don’t dwell on what could’ve been. Focus on what will be._

_This is what I signed up for_ , he decided gravely. _This is my life now._

_And they won’t get so much as a word from me._

Kestivo turned to leave with Daario, leaving Jon chained up.

“Mr. Kestivo?”

“Yes?” Kestivo turned back, eyebrow raised.

“I’ve made my decision.”

“So quickly?” Kestivo asked amused. “And to think I thought you were made of stronger stuff. Shall I call a real estate agent, then?”

“I choose pain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may take a tad longer to get the next one up. I need to focus on BITTW. It's been too long since I've updated that one already.
> 
> **Preview for next chapter:**
> 
> “Hello?”
> 
> “Um, hi.” Sansa said stupidly. There was a pregnant pause. “Is this Rhaenys Targaryen?”
> 
> “Who is this?” Rhaenys asked suspiciously. “Did someone leak my number again?”
> 
> “No!” Sansa was quick to correct herself. _Going swimmingly, Stark._ “No. Sorry. This is Sansa Stark. You’re Jon’s sister, right?”
> 
> “Oh!” Rhaenys breathed with a relieved giggle. “I’m sorry I was so rude. But yes, yes I am. Has he forgotten my number _again_? I haven’t heard from him in _weeks_. How is he?”
> 
> Sansa’s heart plummeted.
> 
> “You… you _really_ don’t know?”
> 
> There was a long silence from the other end.
> 
> "K-Know what?"
> 
> Rhaenys then took a sharp intake of breath, and Sansa deduced that she had answered her own question.
> 
> “ _No._ " She breathed. "No, no, no, nonono..." her denials trailed off, becoming deep, hiccuping sobs.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misunderstood bereavement.

SANSA

“Oi!”

Sansa paused her movie, head tilted in confusion. She felt a small smile growing across her face. Robb had just opened the front door, and her older brother sounded _happy_. Last week, that would not have been an oddity. But, since the call from the army, he had only been a concerning mixture of angry and sad. 

_Maybe he’s found the hope I’ve lost._

. . .

In the week since Sansa had overheard the phone call between her father and the lieutenant, any optimism she’d felt that Jon would be alright had abandoned her. He was _captured._ A prisoner of war. She remembered a PowerPoint she had done on POWs in a History class, during her sophomore year of high school. One very concerning fact stuck out.

_95% of POWs do not survive confinement._

She tried to comfort herself like she had with Arya, but her heart was no longer in it. 

Since Sansa was _technically_ not supposed to know, she made no mention of it to the rest of the family. It was her father’s information to share. 

But he didn’t.

Not once throughout the entire week. Not at dinners, or anytime else. During Sunday dinner, when Robb had asked him if he was successful in his prying for more information, their father merely shook his head solemnly. “Jeor is a strict rule follower.” Ned had said forlornly. “He apologized that he can’t provide any more information, and offered his condolences.”

While the rest of the family sighed in frustration, Sansa sat in shock. _Dad_ never _lies_. Ned had done his best to instil this quality in his children, as well. Sansa could remember many a time throughout her childhood that her father had told her a hard truth, whether she’d wanted to hear it or not. It was one of the things she admired most about him.

But judging by the expressions on her family’s faces, her father was right in withholding this information. They were sad enough. There was no need to to elaborate on Jon’s status. _Ignorance is bliss._

And so, Sansa didn’t say a word, either. _A bit of good news wouldn’t hurt, however._

. . .

“What’s got you so cheery?” Arya shouted from the kitchen.

“He’s drunk, that’s why.” A familiar voice called back with a laugh. _What’s he doing back?_

Sure enough, Theon Greyjoy stumbled in, Robb leaning against him. Theon then helped Sansa’s _horrifically_ drunk older brother down onto the couch across from her. Robb proceeded to roll over, and pass out, face down, on the couch. 

“Sansy.” Theon greeted with a smile. “Ravishing as ever.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, but couldn’t quite keep the smile from her face. _He’ll never change._

“I’m not pleased with your older brother at the moment.” Theon said with a smirk. “I was about to get the _smoking_ hot bartender’s number, when prick stumbles to the bar and asks me to call him an Uber. I don’t trust Robb to tie his own shoes when he’s drunk, so, _like a good friend_ , I brought him home. Still not pleased with him though.”

“Just kiss him already.” Sansa drawled with a smile. “Why is he piss drunk at three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon?”

“What’s the point of vacation if you can’t day drink?” Theon shot back. “And Robb is a bloody lightweight, anyway.” Sansa conceded the point. _Very true._

“What are you doing back?” Sansa asked. Theon was a consultant for his older sister’s international shipping company. This usually involved him travelling on long business trips, sometimes for three or four weeks at a time. He had left for Pentos two weeks previous, and wasn’t supposed to be back for another two. 

Theon’s smile evaporated. A very rare look of melancholy took over his face.

“Robb called me.” He said. “Told me about… you know. Snow.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t give me that look.” Theon teased halfheartedly. “I know him and I didn’t exactly leave off on the right foot. But when Robb called me, I…” he trailed off, looking sadder than Sansa had ever seen him.

“I realized how much I missed the broody fucker.” Theon finished with a short laugh. 

“He’s gonna be okay.” Sansa assured him, internally wincing at her tone. _Even I can hear how fake that sounded._ Theon gave her a small smile in thanks, but he clearly didn’t believe her.

“His sister was in Pentos, you know.” Theon said after a few seconds of silence. 

“Rhaenys?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” Theon said. “Met her in the airport bar, like sixteen hours ago.”

“Oh.” Sansa said. “What’s she like?”

“Hot.”

“ _Theon._ ”

“What?” Theon asked with a smile. “She is. She wouldn’t stop asking about Jon, though. For stories and what not, from his childhood. Bit of a turn off, if I’m honest.”

“So she gets on with him?” Sansa asked.

“ _Gets on?_ ” Theon asked incredulously. “The way she talked, you’d think they were bloody twins. She called him her best friend. She also asked me if I could tell him to call her. That he hadn’t called in a few weeks.”

Theon frowned then.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Theon said quietly. “She doesn’t know.”

“Who doesn’t know what?” Robb slurred from the couch.

“Go back to sleep, mate.” Theon said. “The adults are talking.”

Robb’s only response was to grumble something into the cushions, before passing out again. _The mighty Stark Enterprises heir. If only Jeyne could see him now._

“It’s been _a week and a half_.” Sansa spoke lowly. “How does his Targaryen family _not know_?”

“I didn’t exactly delve into their intricate family dynamic during our seven minute, half tipsy conversation in the airport bar. Not enough time, and not nearly enough booze for that, I’m afraid.”

Sansa sighed a exasperated sigh. “It was a rhetorical question.”

“I know.” Theon said with a smirk, before growing serious once more. “But I think she deserves to know, at any rate. If she cares for him the way she sounds like she does, withholding something like _that_ is just cruel. Gods, if Asha was in a similar situation…”

“Yeah, I get it.” Sansa said. “Did you get her number, then?”

“Excuse me? Who do you think I am? Of course I did.” Theon said with a smirk, before hesitating. “Maybe I shouldn’t be the one to… _you know_.”

“No, I don’t.”

“I’m not good at, you know…” Theon said, seemingly looking for the right phrase. “ _Speaking gently_?”

“So who should do it?” Sansa asked. Theon gave her a pointed look. “ _Me?_ Shouldn’t it come from someone who knew him better?”

“Who?” Theon asked. “Arya? She’s worse at speaking gently than I am. Robb is piss drunk. No one else is home, right? That leaves you.”

_Here goes nothing._

. . .

“Hello?”

“Um, hi.” Sansa said stupidly There was a pregnant pause. “Is this Rhaenys Targaryen?”

“Who is this?” Rhaenys asked suspiciously. “Did someone leak my number again?”

“No!” Sansa was quick to correct herself. _Going swimmingly, Stark._ “No. Sorry. This is Sansa Stark. You’re Jon’s sister, right?”

“Oh!” Rhaenys breathed with a relieved giggle. “I’m sorry I was so rude. But yes, yes I am. Has he forgotten my number _again_? I haven’t heard from him in _weeks_. How is he?”

Sansa’s heart plummeted.

“You… you don’t know?”

There was a long silence from the other end, before Rhaenys answered in tiny voice.

“Kn-Know what?”

Rhaenys then took a sharp intake of breath, and Sansa deduced that she had answered her own question.

“ _No_.” She breathed. “No, no, no, _nonono_ …” her denials trailed off, becoming deep, hiccuping sobs.

“Wait, wait, no, no no—” Sansa assured into the phone quickly, wincing, as Rhaenys kept sobbing into the phone. “He’s not— He didn’t— _Rhaenys!_ ” Sansa snapped, not knowing any other way to get her attention.

“W-What?”

“He’s not dead.” Sansa assured, speaking much more softly than she had before. “His superior gave us a call last week. He’s been declared missing in action. I’m sorry if I made it seem… I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Rhaenys sniffed from the other end.

“I-I know it’s not much reassurance.” Sansa stuttered quickly. “But we’re all hopeful over here. He’s going to be okay.” There was another long silence from the other end.

“Thanks.” Rhaenys breathed, before sniffing again. “Thanks for the call. I… thank you.”

“No problem.” Sansa said, trying to offer more reassurances. “He’s going to be okay, Rhaenys. He’s strong, a-and brave, and Mormont assured us that they’re doing everything they can—”

“I’m sure.” Rhaenys cut her off, voice suddenly going snippy. “And I know how _strong_ and _brave_ he is better than _anyone_. I appreciate the call, Sansa _Stark_. I hope you have a good day.”

_Click._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kinda pitiful for how long I've been gone. My bad.  
> I've fallen out of love with this story, a bit. I'm much more invested in my other WIP.  
> I may release a few more chapters of this, but I very much doubt it will be finished.
> 
> Also, I thought it was important to mention that all the _facts_ I talk about are complete cap.  
> I made them all up, for narrative purposes. Sorry if that takes you out of the story a bit, but it's the truth.
> 
> **Preview for next chapter:**
> 
> “Here.” Talisa said with a joyless smile. “This should help with the pain.”
> 
> She handed him a cylindrical container, the telltale rattle of the inner contents causing him to tense.
> 
> _No. I’m five years clean. It’ll be fine._
> 
> He took the container with shaky hands, that he hoped could be explained away by exhaustion, or pain. He turned the bottle around, to read the label.
> 
> _Oxycodone-Acetaminophen - Percocet_
> 
> Jon threw the container across the room as though it had burnt him, scrambling as far up the bed as he could. _Just get away._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Escape
> 
> or, alternatively
> 
> _Simping for Beginners_ by Daario Naharis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING
> 
> This chapter describes deals with themes of both torture and opiate addiction. 
> 
> Just a heads up.

JON

Jon lost count of the days after the fifth.

He wasn’t allowed much sleep. He was awoken after no more than three hours of slumber, like clockwork. If not for Talisa’s intervention, he’d likely be getting even less. 

“Blood oxidizes quicker during sleep.” Talisa had told their captors bravely, after they woke him up after only one hour. “If you want him to remain lucid, you need to let him sleep.”

“Maybe I don’t want him lucid.” Kestivo had shot back, eyes glinting cruelly.

“He won’t be able to answer your questions if you drive him insane.” Talisa then retorted cooly, not backing down. Not for the first time, Jon had admired her fortitude. _They haven’t beaten the stubbornness out of you yet, Tal._

Kestivo had acquiesced, albeit hesitantly, and Jon had been allowed his small increase in sleep.

But sleep was the least of his worries.

The beginning of his torture was rather tame, in Jon’s opinion, but he saw right through it. _Start light, lull me into a false sense of security, and then get worse, and worse_. Kestivo would be putting strain on his mind, as much as his body. With each progressively worse torture method, they would push Jon to the brink, make him feel like he was experiencing the _worst_ pain he’s ever felt, and then stop, and then question him again.

When Jon refused to speak, they would resume, and push him even further. And, every single time, before questioning him, they reminded him that the next time would be even worse. “ _If you thought that was bad, the next time will be even worse,_ ” Kestivo would say. “ _Tell us what we wish to know, and I will end your suffering._ ”

And yet, Jon kept his mouth shut.

_I was the North’s youngest sergeant in years. I kicked Xanax’s ass. This is just my life’s next adversity._

The methods weren’t as _creative_ as Jon had expected, but they were no less painful. They began by taking a hammer to his fingers. Not hard enough to break the bone, at first. But as Jon refused to speak, the swings got harder and harder, and he was left with a few broken bones. He did his best to hide those, but the telltale _crack_ is hard to miss.

Once Kestivo realized he’d broken a bone, he’d feel around for the break, and focus the hammer on that specific spot. 

But, Jon kept his mouth shut.

They moved on to waterboarding, and Jon kept his mouth shut. They electrocuted him, wiring him up to what looked like a old car battery, and Jon kept his mouth shut. Eventually, Kestivo seemed to actually be getting frustrated, and took out his anger on Jon. 

With a pipe wrench, that had been held over a blowtorch.

His right kneecap took the brunt of the assault. Jon passed out from the pain after a good six swings, which was a small blessing in it’s own way. It was the first time Jon had been unconscious without the aid of a painkiller, since waking up in his cot for the first time.

In between _interrogations_ , Talisa was tasked with ensuring that Jon stayed alive. _Alive enough to take some more punishment, is closer to the truth._

She’d informed Jon as to the importance of sleep. She’d told him that he should sleep every opportunity that he had. But, Jon had learned after the first hammering that pain was a hindrance to sleep. 

And so, Talisa procured a solution.

. . .

“Here.” Talisa said with a joyless smile. “This should help with the pain.”

She handed him a cylindrical container, the telltale rattle of the inner contents causing him to tense.

_No. I’m five years clean. It’ll be fine._

He took the container with shaky hands, that he hoped could be explained away by exhaustion, or pain. He turned the bottle around, to read the label.

_Oxycodone-Acetaminophen - Percocet_

Jon threw the container across the room as though it had burnt him, scrambling as far up the bed as he could. _Just get away._

“What’s the problem?” Talisa asked, with a furrow in her brow. “It’s Percocet. I’m surprised they even keep a painkiller this strong in the first place. It’ll get the job done.”

“I can’t.” Jon breathed. His breathing began to quicken.

“Why not?”

“I-I… just… _no_. Never. Not in a million years.” Jon rambled out, noting in the back of his mind that he’d begun shivering. “I _can’t._ ”

Talisa studied him for a long moment, before understanding dawned in her eyes. Jon looked away before the understanding became disgust at the poor junky, or pity, if she was of the more understanding type, like Jon suspected she was.

“You’re very brave, Jon.” Talisa said after a few minutes. “But I would imagine that a relapse would be the least of your issues, right now. Sleep is more important.”

Jon refused to acknowledge her, because _what in all hells would she know about it_ , and so she tried a different approach.

“How long?”

“Have I been clean?

She nodded.

“Five years.”

“And how did you do it? How did you quit?”

“Rehab.” 

_Rhae made me go to rehab. She drove me there, and picked me up two months later. She visited me twice every week. Nobody else visited, but she did. Egg didn’t even drop by for a guilt visit._

“Was it Percocet?”

“No.” Jon shook his head. “Xans.”

_Xanax that Egg got me into. That he sold me._

“An opiate’s an opiate though, right?” Talisa asked with a humourless smile. “I get it. My uncle back in Volantis was hooked on heroin. He was in an out of rehab for the better part of a year. I know how hard it is, which is why I know how hard what I’m asking of you is. But if you have to go through this torture, on _zero_ sleep, you will go insane. Like, clinically psychotic. _Permanently_. I’m sorry, Jon. I really am. But the pills are the better of two shitty choices.”

Jon gave a grand sigh, that he felt reverberate through his entire body.

“Alright.” He said, resigned to his relapse. _I’ve beat it once. I’ll just have to do it again._ “Pass ‘em here.”

The practiced ease in which he took the pills, needing no water to wash them down, scared him more than any torture device Kestivo could dream up.

. . .

Jon and Talisa became closer and closer every day. She set his broken and dislocated bones after the hammers, and had the oxygen mask ready after the waterboarding. She massaged his spasming muscles to relaxation after the car battery, and had a burn salve and a cast ready after the pipe wrench. 

She spoke to him the whole time, about unrelated things. She spoke to him about her life before her confinement, as the daughter of Volantene socialites. She was fleeing an arranged marriage her parents had made for her, and working on the front lines as a medical nurse instead. Jon had chuckled at the similarities between the two of their stories. 

_We both told our rich parents to fuck off. And look where it got us._

Jon was never really in a mood to talk when they had their opportunities, and so he was content to listen. When she asked him questions, he put in what he could. He usually couldn’t speak too much without exerting himself, and so his short, stilted sentences had to suffice, but Talisa didn’t seem to mind.

While he wasn’t speaking much, he was very much conscious. And he noticed something. 

The meek, defeated Talisa he had met on his first day of confinement was a figment of the past. She was fighting back in any way she could. She would heal Jon as best as she could, sometimes hiding behind the medical ignorance of their captors to get Jon a few extra hours of sleep. When she would have previously averted her eyes to the floor, she now met the gaze of anyone she spoke to, with a defiant fire in her eyes.

Jon asked her about it, one day, after a session with the car battery.

“I see you come back here, every day, all beaten and bloody.” She said. “And they keep coming back for you. After all that they’re doing to you, you don’t give in. If you can be brave enough to take all of their torture, I can be brave enough to fight back, in my own way.”

“They haven’t broken us yet.” Jon rasped, sharing a rare genuine smile with his new friend.

. . .

Jon was shaken awake an hour or so earlier than usual. Much to his annoyance. 

“I still have an hour.” He protested sleepily. “Fuck off.”

“Listen to me.” A voice Jon hadn’t heard in a while spoke. He opened his eyes, meeting the blue eyes of Daario Naharis. “You there?”

“Where the hell have you been?” Jon asked indignantly. “ _Play along_ , you said. You remember? I haven’t seen you since that day! Do you know what they’ve been doing to me?”

“ _Quiet._ ” Daario hissed at him, looking behind him at a sleeping Talisa in her chair. _So she lies about going back to her own cot. Gods, she damn stubborn_. “I’m sorry, alright? That Kestivo prick sent me on a scouting mission, to see if any of your Westerosi friends came looking for you. I just got back.”

“Did they?” Jon asked, a small bloom of hope unfurling.

“Not exactly.” Daario said with a grimace. “I got a message from some my superior. My _Tyroshi_ superior. One of your friends, Wittlestick, sent a message to your Westerosi people, confirming they found Cragas Drahar.”

“And?”

“ _Listen._ ” Daario hissed again. “I don’t have much time, so I need you to listen, and not interrupt.” Jon nodded his acquiescence. “Good. They know that you’re captured, and assume you’re being tortured for information. That doesn’t seem to matter to them though. A drone strike has been ordered, and it will be here in under an hour. They ordered me to get myself out. They called you an _unfortunate casualty_ , saying that you both weren’t valuable enough to risk rescue, and that since you’d probably squealed under the questioning, it wouldn’t be too tragic if you went down with the ship.”

“They said that?” Jon asked, completely stricken.

_Mormont wouldn’t. Lannister might, but Mormont wouldn’t let him._

“I’m paraphrasing.” Daario said with a dismissive hand wave. “ _But_ , your commander, Mormont, got in touch with me directly. I don’t know _how_ , since that line is supposed to be _secure_ , but that’s neither here nor there. He told me who you were. And more importantly, who your _father_ is.”

“Mormont doesn’t know who my father is.” Jon protested. _Nobody does. And that’s on purpose._

“So your old man _isn’t_ the bloody PM?” Daario asked with an amused raised eyebrow. He huffed a small chuckle at Jon’s scoff. “That’s what I thought. He told me that if I got you out, I would be personally rewarded by the most powerful man in the world, know riches beyond my wildest dreams, blah blah blah, whatever. I don’t care about any of that.”

“So why tell me, if you aren’t going to do it?” Jon gritted out. “They torture me every three hours, you know. This is supposed to be my torture _free_ time.”

“What did I tell you about interrupting?” Daario asked, but his eyes held some mirth at Jon’s sarcasm. _Glad it amuses you, prick._ “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to do it. I’m just saying that I want a _different_ reward.”

“What?” Jon asked, and he was almost ashamed at how desperate he sounded. _Almost._

“I want you to get me a date with your aunt.”

Jon blinked, an agreement ready on his lips before Daario had even named his price.

“That’s it?” Jon asked, not even attempting to mask his shock. “Risking your life, disobeying your commander? For some pussy?”

“For _Daenerys Targaryen’s_ pussy _._ ” Daario corrected, as if that made sense, and as though it made a difference to _Jon_ of all people. “ _Hell yes._ I hooked up with her once at a club in Pentos. It was _unreal_. She is more than worth the risk. So, if you get me a date with Daenerys, I’ll get you out of here.”

“Deal.” Jon agreed immediately. _Sorry, Dany. He seems like a bit of a ass, but you owe me for something… I think. Probably. Hopefully._

“Great.” Daario breathed, relief evident. Jon had to hold back a chuckle. _Bit besotted, isn’t he?_ He turned around, preparing a wheelchair he’d brought along with him. “Kestivo doesn’t know I’m back yet, and doesn’t expect me for another half hour. I’ve killed every guard on our escape route, so it should be a piece of cake, even with you in your condition. _Now_ , we just have to make sure not to wake Miss Nurse over there…”

“Talisa comes with.” Jon interrupted firmly. _I’m not budging on this._

It was a promise they’d made each other. If _any_ opportunity to escape presented itself, they weren’t leaving without one another. 

Jon wasn’t the type to swear a vow he couldn’t uphold. A man he misses greatly taught him that. A man to whom he has a lot of apologizing to do.

“She’ll only slow us down—”

“Talisa. Comes. With.” Jon said, glaring at him. “Or I’ll tell Dany that you have herpes.”

“Fine.” Daario conceded with evident exasperation, and lifted Jon into the wheelchair. His busted kneecap protested vehemently, but it wasn’t anywhere near the pain he’d experienced not two and a half hours ago.

“Hey. Nurse lady.” Daario called softly, jostling Talisa out of her slumber. Talisa jumped a bit, blinking in quick succession, but was alert immediately. “Come on. I’m getting Snow out of here. I’ve been told that you’re coming with.”

Talisa looked to him in shock. Whether it was that they were actually leaving, or at his insistence that she escape with him, Jon couldn’t say. He only gave her an encouraging smile, which she returned, before turning to Daario.

“I have to gather some medical supplies, for the journey. To treat Jon.”

Daario sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Jon thought he heard him mumble something along the lines of _if we’re interrupted one more time_ and _Dany better fucking blow me after this_ , but chose to ignore it for everyone’s sake.

Talisa packed up her supplies on the desk, into a plastic grocery bag, from left to right across her table. Splints, needles, scalpels, tweezers, and medicines were swept into the bag, but she hesitated when she got to the end closest to Jon’s bed.

“Should I?” She asked quietly, holding up the recently delivered containers of Percocet. _Two week’s worth._ Jon’s fingers twitched instinctively, and he already felt the longing begin to thrum through his veins. 

_Just say no. Tyrosh will have better, less addictive painkillers. They’ll have better medical facilities, and you won’t ever have to touch an opiate again—_

“Yeah.” Jon said, hating himself for it, but knowing he would’ve never answered any other way. “Pack it.”

_I’m hooked._

_Again._

. . .

It turned out that Daario was good at his job

Like, _really_ good.

Everything he told Jon was true. They went unaccosted along Daario’s pre-planned escape route, instead walking (or being rolled, in Jon’s case) past guards with slit throats or bullets in their heads. When Talisa had wisely brought up the question of the security cameras, Daario explained that he’d rigged them to play old tape. 

After twenty minutes of wandering the enormous manse, they, _quite literally_ , walked out the front door, past two more dead guards. There was a Jeep, decorated with Myrish camo, waiting for them. 

Talisa helped Jon into the back, and then crawled in next to him.

“All set?” Daario asked. At their confirmation, they sped off.

Not five minutes later, the manse behind them exploded, in a massive inferno. Jon knew because, not only could they hear it, but because he was constantly looking back, as easily as his fractured shoulder blade would allow him.

But there was no pursuit. He almost didn’t allow himself to believe it.

But when they pulled up to the rendezvous point, with a helicopter waiting for them, he turned to Talisa, seeing his own emotions reflected in her eyes.

_We’re free._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We back!
> 
> **Preview for next chapter:**  
>  Rhaenys started sprinting as soon as her brother was wheeled off the plane. She gathered him into a massive bear hug, and Sansa could see her shoulders shake with the force of her sobs.
> 
> Sansa smiled a soft smile, absentmindedly noting that her cheeks were wet as well. _Grown woman tears._


End file.
